![]() ![]() After the shooting at Thurston, the police had discovered two bodies inside her family’s home-her brother had killed their parents, too. Her parents had built the house twenty-five years earlier-an A-frame surrounded by Douglas firs. “I remember turning on the TV and seeing my house, the house I grew up in, from a helicopter view, ” Kristin recalled recently. Someone told her to check the news the story was dominating CNN. As Kristin would later learn, he had killed two students and injured another twenty-five. Then a third friend phoned and blurted out what nobody else wanted to say: Kip was the one who had opened fire at Thurston. ![]() Soon afterward, another friend called and told her that there had been a shooting at Thurston High School, where Kristin had gone and where her brother, Kip, was in ninth grade. He stammered something about having bad news and hung up. The phone call came early that morning from a friend from her home town-Springfield, Oregon. She had a scholarship for competitive cheerleading-she was an expert tumbler and flyer-and she lived with some of her teammates in a modest rental house they called Cheer Palace. At the time, she was twenty-one and a student at Hawaii Pacific University, in Honolulu. On May 21, 1998, before places like Columbine and Newtown and Parkland had become part of the American vernacular, Kristin Kinkel received a phone call. ![]()
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